(You Don't Have To Be) Cool Anymore
by Laura Schiller
Summary: Post-"Endgame". Kathryn tries to keep a professional distance, but Mark was never part of her crew. Janeway/Johnson.


(You Don't Have To Be) Cool Anymore

By Laura Schiller

Based on: _Star Trek: Voyager_

Copyright: CBS

/

Author's Note: Certain details about Mark Johnson (his career, nickname, hobbies, etc.) are borrowed from the website Memory Beta.

/

"_You don't have to be cool anymore.  
Show me the side that nobody else knows.  
Drop that act with your keys at the door.  
Lose the mirrors, I see through the smoke._

_Save all that for the rest of the world.  
Come on, let me love you, girl.  
Don't you know that I'm already yours?  
You don't have to be cool anymore."_

\- Jordan Davis & Julia Michaels, "Cool Anymore"

/

Kathryn had been afraid that her first meeting with Mark in seven years would be awkward. Thankfully, it was almost impossible to feel awkward in the company of a dog.

The Irish setter walking beside him was older now, her caramel-colored fur touched with gray, her legs stiff and her eyes glazed. But the way her ears went up and her tail wagged when she caught scent of her former mistress was unmistakable. Kathryn crouched down and held out her arms, her cheeks aching from the force of an enormous grin.

"Molly!"

The dog jumped up and licked her face as Kathryn buried both hands in her silky fur. She laughed as she hadn't laughed in months, possibly even years, and was grateful for that laughter as an excuse for her streaming eyes.

Molly remembered her. She was still Kathryn Janeway. The Delta Quadrant hadn't drained away the essential parts of her after all.

"There's my good girl," she murmured. "Yes, it's me. I knew you wouldn't forget."

"Hey, Kath. Don't I get a hello?"

Even before looking up, she could tell that Mark was smiling. She looked up, and sure enough, he was.

Standing in his living room, with its bookshelves full of poetry and philosophy, its row of flowering cacti turned to face the winter sunlight, the smells of coffee and paper and wooden furniture, was both so strange and so familiar that she almost couldn't believe it.

Her first thought was: _My God, he's so much older. _Her second, incongruously enough, was: _He hasn't changed a bit._

His salt-and-pepper hair had a lot more salt in it, and there were unhappy lines around his eyes and mouth. But the baggy gray sweater and jeans he wore looked exactly like what he'd been wearing all his life – he never had and never would understand fashion – and his reading glasses, as usual, were anywhere except on his nose. They were folded in the collar of his sweater, and it wouldn't surprise her if he'd forgotten they were there. His posture, standing with his head slightly lowered, spoke of a lifetime of chasing knowledge as passionately as she did, only out of books rather than in space. His smile was the same one he'd been giving her since they were fourteen years old.

"Hello, Hobbes."

He didn't even make a face at the sound of his embarrassing middle name, which only she had been allowed to call him since he'd started college. He only held out a hand to help her straighten up from her crouched position, and before she knew it they were hugging, glasses and all.

She'd been pursued by other men in the Delta Quadrant – Michael Sullivan, Inspector Kashyk, Jaffen, even Chakotay in his indirect way – all of whom were handsomer, more charismatic, or more similar to her than this quiet philosophy professor who'd never left the Sol system and whose weapon of choice was the written word. But none of them had ever made her feel like this.

She closed her eyes, rubbed her cheek against the wool of his sweater, and breathed in his scent. _Voyager_'s landing at Starfleet Headquarters might have been cause for a planet-wide celebration, but it wasn't until now that she had really come home.

Molly nudged Kathryn's trouser leg and whined. They stepped apart, laughing softly.

"Coffee?" Mark tilted his head in the direction of the kitchen.

"Always."

She shrugged off her coat and kicked off her boots. He stashed them away in the hall closet as casually as if she'd lived here for seven years.

"I should warn you," he said. "I don't grind the beans by hand anymore, so it'll have to be replicated."

"You can't be serious." She gasped in mock horror and swatted him on the arm. "I'm away for seven years and you descend into barbarism?"

"Absolutely." He bowed her into the kitchen. "It's about time you came back to civilize me."

Molly trailed after them, her curly tail wagging, as Kathryn perched on one of the high bar stools by the counter while Mark worked the replicator.

It was the bar stools that gave Kathryn pause.

Mark didn't perch. He sat. He liked his chairs with backs on them and preferably cushions too. In fact, the entire kitchen looked different than she remembered.

This had been their house once. They had been in the middle of furnishing it together when Admiral Paris had called her with that mission to the Badlands. True, the kitchen hadn't really interested Kathryn at the time, but she knew quite well that neither she nor Mark would have meant for it to look like the set for a professional gourmet holoprogram. Granite countertops? A six-burner stove? Shiny stainless-steel implements hanging from hooks in the wall in order of size?

Someone else had remodeled the place. Someone else lived here.

His wife. Of course. The one he'd written to tell her about three years ago. What was her name? Carla. A sensible name, no doubt belonging to a sensible woman, who cooked like a professional chef and would never dream of disappearing on a dangerous mission.

Mark handed Kathryn a cup of coffee and she had to concentrate on not making a face. It was disgusting, which made no sense, since she had drunk exactly this type of coffee on _Voyager_ five times a day and it had never bothered her. Then again, on _Voyager_ she'd had no other choice.

She would be calm. She would be civil. She'd negotiated with aliens who were aiming torpedoes at her, for God's sake. This couldn't be that much harder. They'd been friends before. They could be friends again.

"So," she said, after a stoic gulp of coffee, "How's your book?"

Mark had been writing one manuscript after another since before she'd met him: fiction, dissertations, memoirs of great thinkers he admired, even an attempt at science fiction which was surprisingly popular despite its glaring inaccuracies. His latest work was a comparative analysis of the concept of logic in the works of Socrates and Surak. He liked nothing better than to explain his work to her, waving his hands like the teenager she remembered and letting his cup grow cold.

From there, they went on to catching each other up on all their news.

How was her debriefing? Classified, so all she could say was thank God it was over.

What about the Maquis and Equinox crews? All pardoned, since the Dominion War had left Starfleet terribly short-staffed, but Command would keep a close eye on them.

How did she like being an admiral? A little too much desk work, but not being shot at was a bonus.

Was she still in touch with her former shipmates? Yes. Tom and B'Elanna were designing ships in New Zealand, Chakotay and Seven were teaching at Starfleet Academy, Tuvok was recuperating on Vulcan, Harry had gotten his Lieutenant's pip and several captains were competing to sign him on, and Neelix had sent news via the MIDAS array that he and Dexa were expecting.

But it was Mark's answers to her own questions, though perhaps less newsworthy to the general public, that Kathryn really wanted to hear.

Did he still talk to her mother and sister? Yes. Gretchen sent him caramel brownies on his birthday and Phoebe had given him a painting that now hung in his office.

Where were Molly's puppies? In good homes around the neighborhood, some of them even with puppies of their own.

How was life at the university? Not bad. There was a guest lecturer who kept picking holes in Mark's theories, but he was taking it as a challenge to do better.

They were calm. They were civil. It was all beginning to feel slightly unreal.

Every time she tried to ask about Carla (_What's she like? Are you happy? Couldn't you have waited just a few more months?_), the taste of that terrible coffee seemed to choke her.

It was Mark who brought up her name, and that more or less by accident.

"His name's Viran," he said, referring to his Vulcan teaching assistant. "It sounds wrong to say it, but I miss having a human TA. One who'd at least make a face at my terrible jokes. I remember how Carla - "

He cut himself off. Silence fell. Not even Molly, sprawling at the foot of the bar stools and sulking because the humans were too high up to pet her, could prevent the moment from becoming awkward.

Kathryn covered it up as best she could. "Yes, that's right, you said you met her at work. Was she your TA?"

That would mean she was likely to be younger than either of them.

"Yeah." He blushed, although she hadn't said a word in judgment. "I mean, at first. We didn't get together until after she'd finished her graduate thesis."

"In what field?"

"Nineteenth-century American transcendentalism."

"So … Thoreau, Whitman, that sort of thing? _'I am large, I contain multitudes'?_"

"Uh-huh." Mark stared into his empty cup. "She meant for this place to be her Walden … I guess it didn't work out that way."

Kathryn was rusty on classic literature (always excepting her beloved Dante), but she knew enough to recognize Walden Pond as the place where the writer Henry David Thoreau had built a cabin to get away from modern society and live a simpler life. She could understand that. It was the same impulse that had sent her to shelter in da Vinci's workshop or Fair Haven, when otherwise the demands of her career – much as she loved it, even now – would have driven her insane.

She looked over Mark's shoulder at the window, which framed a snow-covered garden. The plants with their clusters of dried leaves had collected the snow. Two gray squirrels chased each other around a leafless tree, their tails rippling like small silver waves in an otherwise motionless scene. The afternoon sun turned the snow a dozen shades of orange, pink and blue.

How bored she had been with views like this as a child in her parents' house, dreaming of adventure in the stars. How desperately she had missed them in the Delta Quadrant. How glad she was to see it today.

The rest of what Mark had said took a moment to sink in, but once it did, she was ashamed of herself. She had no business being glad right now when he obviously wasn't. That look on his face when he'd talked about things 'not working out' was not the look of a happily married man.

"What do you mean, it didn't work out? Did she … "

"She left me, yes. Around … two years ago now, I think. It was pretty short as marriages go."

Kathryn felt a chill that had nothing to do with the perfectly functional heating.

For once in her life, the acclaimed scientist was afraid to ask a question. She didn't want to know why Carla had left.

If it was out of jealousy of Kathryn after learning about _Voyager_'s survival, that would mean Kathryn was responsible for ending their marriage. But if it was for some other reason that had nothing to do with her, it would mean that Mark had stopped caring, except in the distant way you cared about old acquaintances.

No wonder he looked older than seven years should have made him. No wonder this house was so quiet, with only Molly – bless her loyal canine heart – to keep him company.

But he didn't have to know what she was thinking. He didn't have to know how much this hurt.

"I'm sorry to hear that," she said, injecting just enough concern for an old acquaintance into her voice. "Still, that's the way life goes, doesn't it? You still have your work, your friends, your independence … "

She was about to deliver a long, well-reasoned and incredibly tactless speech in favor of single life when Molly interrupted her.

The old dog, having absent-mindedly nibbled some food and lapped some water from her bowls in the corner, was bored with the conversation going on over her head. She planted herself by the door and barked until both humans looked up.

"Sorry for the interruption," said Mark, getting up without meeting Kathryn's eyes. "This is usually when I walk her."

"That's okay," said Kathryn politely. "I can come with you. I've been hoping to look at the old neighborhood anyway … if that's alright with you, I mean."

"Sure," said Mark, but she heard a distinct chill in his voice that hadn't been there a few minutes ago. "Just leave the cup, I'll recycle it later."

/

Mark still lived in the same suburb of Bloomington where they had both grown up. It was so far out in the countryside that if you squinted, you could hardly see your neighbor's house among the trees. The only sounds Kathryn could hear as they walked were fresh snow crunching under their boots and Molly's paws, their breath steaming out into the icy air, and a stubborn bluejay chirping defiance against the cold before darting away.

They could have gone back indoors after Molly had done her business, but they kept walking, talking about one impersonal subject after another, letting the dog lead the way. Soon the houses began to stand closer together, the occasional hovercar floated by, a few puffy-coated pedestrians nodded in greeting, and they passed the old train station that had been rebuilt as a transporter station. This was how Kathryn had gotten here from San Francisco. She nearly turned back toward the doors, but Molly tugged her past them.

Their feet must have known what they were doing before their minds did. Inevitably, they wound up in front of the summer sports club.

It was closed for the winter, of course. The buildings were locked, the outdoor pool was drained, the tennis court blanketed with snow. Molly whined with disappointment at the lack of tennis balls to chase. She began wandering around the field nearby, looking for something – anything – that she could fetch for her master and mistress to make them smile again. She stretched her extendable leash as far as it would go.

Kathryn closed her eyes. It was easy to imagine laughing voices, running sneakers, the _thwack_ of a racquet and the smells of barbecue and fresh-mown grass … so easy that she quickly opened her eyes again, just to get back to reality.

They'd known each other from school, but playing tennis was how she and Mark had first come into focus for each other. He had irritated her past patience by lecturing her about her technique, and she had been too young and shallow to realize that he only wanted to spend time with her. If she could go back and tell her teenage self just one thing, it would be to look twice at that skinny know-it-all, because one day, he'd become the only partner she wanted.

"You haven't asked me why," he said.

"What?" She shook her head to clear away her confusion. The last thing they'd been talking about was post-war reconstruction work on Cardassia.

"Why Carla and I got divorced, I mean," Mark clarified, frowning at her and digging his hands into his coat pockets. "The old you would've pried it out of me in seconds."

He stared through the wire fence at the empty tennis court as if he, too, saw ghosts there. It would have been easy to retort that she wasn't the old Kathryn anymore, but if that was true, why was she having so much trouble staying calm?

"I wouldn't presume," she said in the cool, commanding voice she had always used on _Voyager_ to shut down an argument with Chakotay. "I understand that it's a private matter, and if you don't care to talk about it, the last thing I'd want to do is pry."

Mark did not look at all relieved to hear that. He looked as if she'd drawn a phaser and aimed it at his heart.

"For God's sake," he said, holding up his mittened hands. "Would you stop doing that?"

"Excuse me?"

"The whole 'superior officer' thing." He managed to make air quotes in spite of the mittens, which would have been hilarious at any other time. "I'm not in Starfleet, remember? If you want to say something, just say it!"

"Fine!" Angry puffs of steam filled the frozen air between them. "Go ahead and tell me. Why _did_ you get divorced?"

His face, already flushed from the cold, turned an even deeper red. His hazel eyes shone with something that might have been the cold, but probably wasn't.

"Because I've been loving you for the past forty years and I can't stop now, and she knows that. She said competing with a ghost was bad enough, but competing with a living woman was impossible. It wasn't fair to either of us. That's why."

Molly chose this unlucky moment to pounce on something in the snow and yank on her leash. Kathryn, losing her balance in more than one sense, almost wiped out on the sidewalk. Feeling elated and guilty at the same, she found the easiest compromise was to get angry.

"Don't you dare make this my fault!"

"_Your _fault?" He raised his eyes to the sky and made a sound somewhere between a sarcastic laugh and an irritated sigh. "Kath, you're being illogical. I'm writing a book about logic, so I should know."

He was lecturing her again, just like he had on that first day. She'd forgotten how annoying that was … and how much she'd missed it.

"If anyone's at fault, it's that Caretaker creature for stealing you away. The rest of it was just us, dealing with the fallout. I blamed myself for the longest time for dragging an innocent person into this, but she chose it too. And we _did_ have some good times while it lasted … "

"What are you trying to say?" she interrupted.

He shook his head in frustration, and one gray lock of hair fell over his left eye. Of all incongruous things, she remembered curling up with Jaffen one winter night on Quarra, tracing his face with one fingertip and wondering why, if she was so happy, something was still missing. It was that one curl. She remembered now.

"I'm saying," said Mark, "That we can't change the past, but we've got a second chance now and it would be a waste to throw it away. I'm not asking you to marry me, but … can't we start over, even if it's right from the beginning? Could you … would you possibly consider letting me buy you another coffee?"

Kathryn's eyes watered. She didn't have Molly's fur to hide her tears in this time, but she didn't want to. She lifted her chin and let him see every drop running down her cheeks.

"Okay," she said, smiling shakily. "But only if it's real coffee this time. I don't suppose O'Reilly's is still … ?"

"Believe it or not, yes. Their grandkids run it now." In spite of the commonplace words, Mark looked as if he'd won the honor of a lifetime, and when she held out her hand, he took it with something almost like awe.

He whistled for Molly. She came bounding up to them like an overgrown puppy, kicking up the snow as she went, stopping right in front of them to shake meltwater out of her fur. She dropped something in front of the humans' feet and looked up at them with a wide doggy grin, waving her tail in triumph.

It was a scruffy, soaking wet tennis ball. Kathryn laughed as she picked it up and put it in her pocket.

"You know, old girl," she said to the dog. "That reminds me … I think you'd better stay with Mark, don't you? You seem to be used to him."

"I'm okay with that if she is," said Mark, ruffling Molly's ears. "You sure you don't mind?"

"I'm sure. It's because, well … have you ever read Pullman's _Dark Materials_? The daemon animals?"

Mark, the most well-read man she'd ever known, scoffed in mock offense. "The concept of a daemon being between divine and mortal comes straight out of Plato."

He glanced between the golden-brown fur of the dog and the golden-brown hair of the woman beside him, and understood her instantly. "I'll take care of your soul, Kath. I promise."

He was playing along with the reference, but she could tell that he also meant every word.

"And I'll take care of yours," she said. "Which means I'll have to visit often."

"The O'Reillys will be delighted."

On that note, the three of them set off down the street in the direction of the café where, at sixteen, they had both pretended not to be on a date. Today they knew it perfectly well, but were in no hurry to rush things.

After all, what was a little more time compared to forty years?


End file.
